


the moon licks the salt of your hand

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Exploration, F/M, Half-Sibling Incest, Masturbation, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-10
Updated: 2014-04-22
Packaged: 2018-01-04 06:03:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1077446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Half of her may not be his sister, but half is, and at the moment, Jon is feeling things entirely unbrotherly in nature towards <i>all</i> of her, things that make him want to walk right into that water and replace her hand with his own, to feel for himself all the ways that she’s different and lovely and perfect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. summer afternoon, summer afternoon

**Author's Note:**

> Jon catches Sansa at the hot springs doing things he never knew girls did. 
> 
> Show ages/aged up (I'm imagining them in the 14-18 range, so basically just think of them at whatever age you're comfortable with), set pre-series(ish)/Game of Thrones.

Sansa is at the hot springs. Jon is still dozens of steps away and he can tell that. There’s no one else in Winterfell with hair like that; Robb’s is a deeper russet, and Lady Stark’s has dimmed with age, but Sansa’s hair is like a coil of sunset atop her head, visible even through the leaves of the trees and the wisps of fog that reach tentatively across the path.

Jon’s footsteps sputter to a halt. He stands in the path, squinting towards the springs as if by doing so he could ascertain Sansa’s mood. She’s been snappish lately, and haughty – haughtier than usual – eyeing Jon in a way he can’t quite place when she thinks he’s not looking. It’s discomfiting. Jon has never been as close to Sansa as he has his other siblings, but their relationship has always been cordial and caring. Perhaps it is only that she grows older, becoming more a woman every day, with a woman’s emotions and some new inner mystery that makes her inexplicable to the likes of a bastard boy like Jon. It makes him feel entirely wrong-footed, the way she picks at him of late. Surely she’ll narrow her eyes if he attempts to join her in the warm pool now, she’ll bite off terse words and turn her dainty nose up ever so slightly to communicate her displeasure. It’s nearly enough to make Jon pivot on his heel and go right back to the Keep, but then he bristles at the idea. She doesn’t own Winterfell, after all. He lives here as much as she. And Jon isn’t one to turn tail and run from anyone.

It’s that defiance that’s running through his mind when he marches resolutely towards the hot springs, rehearsing in his head what he’ll say, how he’ll confront her and let her know that whatever this new prickliness she’s indulging in, he’ll not bow and scrape and snivel to please her.

She doesn’t look at him when he stomps up to the lip of the pool. Her eyes aren’t even open, let alone narrowed at him. For a moment, Jon grasps at his righteous indignation, wanting to keep hold of it, but curiosity nudges it aside to leave him staring at Sansa and wondering. Her cheeks are flushed, far more flushed than the heat of the pool would accomplish, and the flush seems to spread down her throat and chest, visible even under the wet cling of her shift at her collarbones. She sits quite still, her hands lowered beneath the water – folded neatly on her lap, he imagines – but then she ducks her head forward, one long curl of hair slipping from its pins to dangle over her shoulder and fan out over the surface of the water. Fascinated, Jon stares at it, the water deepening her hair’s red to the color of fresh blood. He’s always liked her hair, the liveliness and energy of it, so appealingly incongruous to her prim obedience. Her head dips a bit lower, the curl spreading in the water further, and then she pulls up and tips it back, eyes still closed, lower lip pulled between her teeth. Jon is about to ask if she’s all right, concern replacing curiosity, when she lets out a high, shuddering sound that unravels into a sigh – a sound that he's heard from her mother's chambers when she's with Lord Stark late at night – and Jon realizes with a bolt of clarity just what it is she’s doing.

Seems her hands aren’t folded neatly in her lap after all.

“Gods,” Jon breathes. He can’t help it. A hot fist seems to have closed in his gut. Jon had never imagined that girls did such a thing, let alone a girl like Sansa. For as long as Jon can remember, Sansa has been prim and proper and tidy, her hems as clean and unobjectionable as her emotions. Knowing that she shares the same sort of unruly feelings that course through him floods Jon with a sick-sweet ache.

Her eyes fly open the instant he speaks the word, the crimson on her cheeks from something besides heat or pleasure now. For several long moments, they merely stare at each other. Jon’s stomach is a churn of conflicting feelings, shame battling with curious desire. Half of her may not be his sister, but half is, and at the moment, Jon is feeling things entirely unbrotherly in nature towards _all_ of her, things that make him want to walk right into that water and replace her hand with his own, to feel for himself all the ways that she’s different and lovely and perfect.

Sansa snaps back to herself first. She sucks in a deep breath, almost as if preparing to scream. Jon winces in anticipation, but her voice is flat and nearly calm when she speaks. 

“Get out.”

“Of where?” he very nearly asks. “Winterfell?” But he has no grounds to be so confrontational with her, so he merely nods and turns to go, never looking back over his shoulder even though he desperately wishes to.

***

He tries not to think of it. The efforts he goes to are slightly absurd; he’s mentally named all the Targaryen kings, recited the words of every House, counted to a thousand three times over. No matter what he tries to fill his mind with, she still creeps back in as if she’s etched inside his eyelids; he sees that curl of hair breaking on the water, her teeth white against the red of her lip. His ears hear the sound she made. Jon thinks he’ll hear it in his dreams. He should be ashamed, and part of him is, but a larger part is too caught up in a thrilling sense of discovery, so much heady awareness of a world he hadn’t known existed. He’s half a mind to find Theon and black his eye for never mentioning that girls touched themselves as intimately as Jon knows all the boys do. All the bragging and blowing Theon’s done about girls, and he never shared something so amazing! All the months and years Jon could have known such a thing, wasted. But then, perhaps this is something best discovered on one’s own.

It’s with far less guilt than he should have that Jon touches himself just as intimately that night, as he lies in bed and allows himself to remember every moment, every heartbeat. Though he knows she must think of it only with shame and embarrassment, he indulges in wondering if she lies in her own bed, remembering as well, slipping her hand down beneath the furs the way Jon does. It’s the hardest he’s ever peaked. He should feel guiltier about that than he does as well.

She makes no mention of it the next day, or in the days after. He’d think he dreamed it but for the strange looks she gives him, sidelong glances at supper, eyes following him when he approaches or leaves the table. Each look is unreadable. That’s another way she’s changed. Time was, Jon could guess at her thoughts just from looking at her.

When he heads for the hot springs a handful of days later, he tells himself he isn’t hoping she’ll be there. And he tells himself he’s not disappointed when he arrives to find the pool empty. He tells himself that as he sheds his clothes and slides into the water, as he sits for far too long, letting the water crease his fingertips and toes into ripples. He tells himself that right up until his stomach proves him a liar by turning a neat flip when he turns his head at the crunch of leaves and sees Sansa there, her gait hesitant and her face a mask. She stands silent, hovering at the edge of the copse of trees like a hesitant doe, wary of a hunter. Then she steps forward and sinks gracefully to her knees at the side of the pool, hands settled just so across one another.

“I’ve been thinking,” she says. “About what happened.”

“What happened,” Jon echoes, half dreading what she might say, half longing for it. He’s a fool. He should be nothing but dread. But knowing that she’s been thinking of that day heats his blood until the water of the pool seems nearly cool.

“Yes, the other day. When you-” She stops short, her cheeks pinking again. She takes a deep breath and rushes on, as if afraid to lose her nerve. “I’ve been thinking and there’s only one fair thing to do.”

“Fair thing to do?” he echoes again, but in confusion this time. It seems as if the conversation is running out ahead of him to some place he knows but can’t name.

“You have to do the same. For me. So I can watch.”

For several moments, Jon can only sit, dumbfounded, thinking he surely misheard. A laugh bubbles up in his throat but he swallows it back; something tells him she won’t take it kindly if he laughs.

“So you can…” he begins to echo, then trails off, shaking his head. “Sansa-”

“It’s only fair,” she says, louder this time, her chin coming up a notch and her hands beginning to clench on her lap. “You saw me like that. Didn’t you?” He can’t answer. He can only stare and think with dismay of his increasing hardness beneath the water; clearly his body is all too willing to answer her demand for fair play. “You did,” she answers for him. “You _watched_. And it’s the only fair thing that I should get to see you do the same.” Her eyes catch his and flutter away. The warmth in his gut is a burning now, and his breath snags like his throat is lined with burrs that catch it and hold it until it nearly hurts.

“You… You want-”

“Only fair,” she repeats, cheeks burning, lips set in a stubborn purse. Surely Jon is imagining the curiosity in her darting glance. Surely, he _must_ be.

“And you won’t tell?”

“Not if you won’t.”

He hesitates a long time. He doesn’t need to, though; his body was ready the moment she first said the words.

It’s a strange thing, to touch himself in such a manner with anyone there watching, let alone his half-sister. For a moment, he thinks it would be far less awkward if it were one of the lads, say Robb, or even Theon. But then he thinks that Robb would only grimace and look away – indeed, that’s all Jon would really want him to do – and Theon would cackle with derision, he’d find someone way to make Jon feel as small as a speck. Neither of them would look on him with the warm, innocent curiosity Sansa does now. There’s no anger or retribution on her face. Nor is there even any shame. There’s only shy interest, and a softness that makes Jon feel curiously safe even as he does something so terrible that he’s sure Lady Stark would roast him on a spit were she to know of it. It’s that softness that has him giving in to it, relaxing into his own touch and letting himself feel the pleasure of it, a pleasure that seems heightened for having her as audience to it. Perhaps it’s wickedness that has him imagining her hand in place of his. It’s the tiny shred of decency that remains to him that has him stilling his hand and lifting his eyes to hers after several minutes.

“Is that enough?” he asks quietly, hoping she’ll say yes. Praying she’ll say no.

“Finish,” she says even more quietly. “I want you to finish. That is… Please.”

Jon shivers, despite the heat of the springs. Her hushed words work on him more powerfully than he could have imagined. Immediately, he begins to move his hand again, curling it around his length and twisting, feeling the sweet ache build and build in his gut until he spills into the warm water, biting his lip to keep from shouting, or worse, from saying her name on a moan.

The labored saw of his breathing sounds in his ears. He doesn’t remember closing his eyes, but they’re shut now and he almost doesn’t want to open them again. Perhaps he could make the moment last forever – and forestall whatever unpleasant moments might come after – if only he never opened his eyes again.

When he does reluctantly open his eyes and look at her, she’s staring at him with a look he can’t read, still kneeling primly, hands still folded like a fresh-pressed handkerchief in her lap. But he can see the jerky rise and fall of her chest, and the pink at her cheeks, her lips, her throat. He wants to say something – gods, he wants to say _everything_ – but he’s no idea what to say, and before he could even begin to form a word, she’s on her feet and she’s gone, only the beacon of her hair disappearing into the wood letting him know that she was even there.

_ fic title from a quote by Johannes Bobrowski_

 _chapter title from a quote by Henry James _


	2. boys and girls together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s not sure why she comes back. He’s too afraid to ask. “Because I’m gathering evidence of your deviancy to tell father,” the Angry Spectre of Sansa he’s imagined in his more guilt-ridden moments tells him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show ages/aged up (I'm imagining them in the 14-18 range, so basically just think of them at whatever age you're comfortable with), set pre-series(ish)/Game of Thrones.

He’s not sure why she comes back. He’s too afraid to ask. “Because I’m gathering evidence of your deviancy to tell father,” the Angry Spectre of Sansa he’s imagined in his more guilt-ridden moments tells him. Actual Sansa says nothing, not one single word, not in any of the times he turns in the water and sees her there just like that first time, hovering at the treeline as if needing some unspoken permission before she’ll approach and sit, hands tidy, eyes wider and darker than any doe’s. She sits and watches as Jon takes himself in hand time and time again, each of them snared in this strange web they weave between them. 

As for why he does it each and every time… Well, maybe a stronger boy could turn away from those doe eyes, perhaps he could refuse the one thing her presence makes him most desperate to do, but Jon is not that boy.

Sometimes he wonders if she’d ever do it again herself for him to see. Sometimes he sees her bite her lip as she watches him, and he thinks she just might.

Today he’s imagining her doing just that, just as she had the first day he’d stumbled upon her at this same pool and stumbled into a different world. When he closes his eyes, he can still see that single, long curl of her hair, fanning over the surface of the water as she dips her head and gives a small quiver. For a moment, he thinks the quiet splash is a memory of that day. It’s only when he drags his eyes open and sees Sansa in the water across from him, their faces level, that he realizes she’s actually slipped into the pool with him.

His brain processes a thousand things at once: her gown folded carefully, set back from the edge of the pool; her shift turning nearly translucent as water wicks up the fabric that now clings to the slope of her chest; the pink of her cheeks; the combination of guilt and defiance and need on her face.

Her hand beneath the water, moving in a slower, more tentative echo of his own rhythm.

For a moment, Jon thinks he’s dreaming. Hallucinating. Dead, even. She couldn’t possibly be in the water with him now, her hand couldn’t possibly be… It’s like one of those stories Theon’s always telling, stories that usually end with some crofter’s wife or another flinging her skirts over her head and begging Theon to take her before her husband returns home. Jon had always firmly believed such stories took place only in Theon’s imagination, and here he is, suffering the same delusion as he stares dumbly at Sansa, his hand ceasing its motion beneath the water.

But then, Jon isn’t sure his mind is capable of conjuring such a sight as potent as this. It’s more than he’d imagined, even better than the first time he’d seen her doing the same thing here in this pool, because this time she’s choosing it, she’s here with _him_. Her defiance has melted into shy insecurity, her face turned down and away, nearly concealed by the curtain of her hair. He wants to tell her it’s all right, that she’s doing nothing wrong. That nothing that feels so good could be bad. He wants to tell her how much he’s imagined this. He wants to kiss her, so much so that it’s an ache in his throat. But he doesn’t want to scare her, or worse, run her off for good, so he only looks away just enough to keep her in the corner of his eye. He begins to move his hand again, her presence and the knowledge of what she’s doing heightening the pleasure of his own touch to an unbearable degree.

Jon groans; he can’t help it. For a moment, her eyes fly open, wide with surprise at his sudden noise. Surprise and a fascination that echoes what Jon feels what he watches her. His guts tighten like a fist, and he feels far hotter than the water around him. Indeed, he feels nearly ablaze, his insides heavy and throbbing. Does she feel the same? he wonders. Does this feel at all the same for girls? Her eyes slip closed and she catches her lip with blunt white teeth, and Jon thinks that perhaps it does.

He spills far faster than he wants to; this is so unreal that surely it can’t happen again and Jon wants to make it last as long as possible, he wants to give himself as much to remember as he can. His groan is not quite swallowed by the burble of the water, and he whisks away the evidence of his release as much as he can, suddenly aware of the mess of it now that she shares the water with him. 

She’s never stayed after his peak before, but she’s staying now – occupied, surely, but still here – and it feels somehow decadent, a heady indulgence. Jon dares closer glances, longer ones. She’s too absorbed in her own goal of release, he thinks, to be uncomfortable under his gaze or think badly of him for it. And he wants to see, gods, how badly he wants to stare unabashedly at her, so that he may catalog every shiver, every sigh, every tiny movement to imagine later in a loop, like an endless version of those crudely sketched flipbooks Uncle Benjen used to make for him and Robb when they were children. He wants to remember and imagine himself moving forward to touch the linen-covered curve of her shoulder, or lick the drops of water that bead on her throat and roll down to be absorbed by the fabric of her shift. He wants to imagine replacing her hand with his own.

By the time she peaks with a sharp gasp and a long shudder, Jon could nearly peak again himself, his cock stirring in his lap until he holds his wrist over it with firm pressure. He wants to focus on her now, not himself. He wants to know if each peak for her looks different, an endless number of ways for her to bring herself pleasure. The thought could bring him to his knees if he weren’t already sitting. He presses his wrist harder and leans forward, as if he could catch her gasp and keep it in his lungs. She makes no more sound. No release spills in the water as it did with Jon, even when she dips her head low and bites her lip hard enough to draw blood. He supposes that’s different for girls; like everything else with them, it’s kept inside, hidden away and only hinted at in tantalizing glimpses that could torture a boy as much as they intrigue him. 

Far too soon, she lifts herself from the water, her gown clinging to her like a nearly transparent skin as she turns her back on him and steps out of the pool, the unmapped terrain of her spine and the coltish press of her hipbones against skin and cloth so beautiful as to break Jon’s heart a little. She doesn’t look at him as she dresses, the wet ends of her hair concealing her face from him. Then she’s gone, and Jon’s sure it’s the last time – he’s so convinced of it that he skips dinner and mopes in his room for the entire evening – until he visits the springs again the next day and she’s there before him, kneeling in her shift at the edge of the pool, nervous and avoiding his gaze but _there_ , and Jon knows this has become something more than it was.


	3. i want your dreams first

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I could help you,” he blurts, wincing at the clumsy sound of the words hanging in the air between them. They almost never speak when they’re here and now he’s said the one thing he probably shouldn’t say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show ages/aged up (I'm imagining them in the 14-18 range, so basically just think of them at whatever age you're comfortable with), set pre-series(ish)/Game of Thrones.

He doesn’t know what makes him do it.

Perhaps it’s because of the crease that’s appeared between her eyes, the sort of frown he’s used to Sansa wearing in regular life, but not here in their secret life at the springs, they life they never acknowledge anywhere else. It tears at him, that crease, the distressed purse of her lips that speaks of some inner turmoil, some struggle that has her hand moving beneath the water much longer than usual, as if her crisis eludes her. Perhaps that’s what drives him to wish to aid her, to smooth that crease away and make her face dissolve into only pleasure.

Or perhaps he’s always wanted to do it, since the first time he watched her here like this.

“I could help you,” he blurts, wincing at the clumsy sound of the words hanging in the air between them. They almost never speak when they’re here and now he’s said the one thing he probably shouldn’t say. 

Her hand stills and her face smoothes, not into pleasure as he’d wish but into confusion and no small bit of wariness. Her eyes are as round as a full moon, white showing all around the blue. If Jon were smarter he would pretend he’d never spoken. Well, Robb has always been the smart one, so Jon doesn’t bluster or dissemble; he only looks at her, his breath caught up in his throat like a rabbit in a snare.

“You what?” she says, the words barely more than a whisper. Something in the way she looks at him spurs him into a sort of brashness, a bravery he rarely possesses when it comes to Sansa.

“I mean, if you're having trouble. I could help. With…” he trails off, shrugging helplessly.

“With what?” The words _are_ a whisper now, her chin dipped down so low towards her chest she nearly speaks into her shift. Gods, but she shouldn’t look so pretty, looking up at him from beneath her eyelashes that way, her cheeks nearly as bright as her hair.

“With…that. With…” He blushes himself when he realizes how he’s crooked the fingers of one hand, his fingertips breaking the surface of the water in a way that’s frankly evocative of how he’s imagined touching her so many times. Her eyes drop to his hand and she blushes even more fiercely, her mouth working soundlessly, though only a small squeak escapes her lips. 

It seems an eon passes in silence, each of them staring at the other, frozen like the statues down in the crypts – apt, really, since it’s occurred to Jon that if he touches her and anyone finds out he’ll be as dead as all of those lords and ladies of the North. He’s on the verge of taking it back, turning tail and fleeing through the wood as bare as his nameday, when her chin bobs in a jerky nod and she turns more fully toward him even as she looks to the side, as if her bravery depends on not meeting his eyes.

“Alright,” she says, and Jon’s whole body feels as if it could turn inside out at the word.

She’s quivering so that the water around her ripples as he moves to her side, even the slightest brush of her knee against his going straight to his groin. Once there beside her, he finds he has no idea how to begin. As with most things, it’s Sansa who takes the lead, parting her knees with a deep breath and a bravery that nearly breaks his heart. Jon could hardly let such bravery be unmet; with a deep breath of his own, he skims the back of his hand over her thigh, his knuckles following the hem of her shift where it’s gathered at her hips until he finds the apex of her thighs and he begins to explore.

The first thing he feels is a swirling of downy hair, which so surprises him that he starts, looking over at her in wonder. Of course he should have imagined that Sansa would be like any other girl – more accurately, like the one other girl Jon had ever seen, a whore in Wintertown who’d taken Theon’s coin and laughingly parted her legs for Jon in a shabby little room above the inn, daring him to look at the red-brown thatch between them – but somehow Sansa had always seemed a world away from a creature such as that, someone otherworldly and unreal. Jon finds that this mark of her realness is painfully arousing, and he wonders what it looks like when Sansa is out of these springs and dry, whether it’s as sleek and tidy as it feels, or if it springs into wild curls, if it’s as red as the hair on her head or intriguingly darker, a shadow that promises untold secrets. Gods, but he wants to touch himself even at this, but he wants to focus on her more, so he fights down the urge with more effort than he’s applied to most things in his life, feeling strangely proud of himself for such restraint.

Sansa’s belly jumps against his wrist; nerves, he wonders? Or – and gods help him for how the idea tests his new-found resolve – desire, perhaps. He strokes over her in an attempt to soothe, tracing the creases at each hip with careful fingertips, marveling at how the skin there is smoother than anything he’s ever felt, but it only seems to make her belly twitch more, her breath coming out with audible hitches now. Emboldened, Jon dips his fingers lower, slowly exploring her, coming back to the spots that make her part her knees further, until one leg ends up hitched over his own. He sets his free hand on the shell of her knee, cupping the strangely delicate bones as he slides his fingers lower, dips them deeper, letting out a groan when his fingertips find a well of soft warmth.

“Oh,” she pants, twisting slightly, her hand coming up to clutch at his forearm. “That’s… _Jon_.”

Jon feels as if he’s discovering a new country. Something dangerous and thrilling expands in his ribcage, threatening to burst through bone and muscle and skin, a new knowledge of the world he’d never imagined existed before. He curves his fingers inside her, drags them up and around and down again, touching every bit of her until he finds one place that makes her squeak and sigh and drop her forehead to his shoulder, her nose pressing against his arm, her breath a damp patch of heat on his skin.

“There,” he murmurs for her, drunk with knowledge, with the power of giving her such pleasure. “Right there.” She nods, her forehead rubbing his shoulder in a way that might be childlike if it weren’t so devastatingly potent. Suddenly Jon hates himself for every moment he wasted, for every second that he’s spent doing anything other than touching her like this, than making her breath catch and unspool into raw sounds that she can’t quite make into words.

His hand is cramping, the muscles in his forearm burning, but he has no thought of stopping. There’s something so close, hovering just out of reach, revealing itself in the quickening of her breath, the bite of her fingernails – she has both hands wrapped around his forearm now – into his skin, the surprisingly powerful tug of her leg hooked over his as she strains at the pleasure Jon knows is only a matter of time.

“Sansa,” he breathes, the word a shocking violation of the unspoken rules that he sets himself to here – no names, no words, no acknowledgement of the life they inhabit outside this ring of trees, nothing that could make him reconsider the wisdom of something so profoundly unwise. But it feels so right on his lips, and she sighs into his skin as he says it even as her body tightens and pulses, the heat of her melting around his hand threatening to send him out of his mind. He’s watched her peak before but not like this, never anything like this, with her shoulders jerking and her teeth biting the flesh of his shoulder as small, mewling sounds escape her lips. Jon knows he’ll remember this forever.

“You,” she murmurs almost sleepily after her shudders have lessened and subsided, and her bones seem to have dissolved to leave her nearly draped over him, head on his shoulder, knee hooked over his thigh, hands curled around the inside of his elbow. “What about you?” Somehow he knows what she’s asking. It’s half permission, half request, and he wants it too badly to let good sense take over, so he takes himself in hand and strokes himself to quick release with her breath fanning his shoulder and his knuckles bumping her thigh each time he moves his hand.

It’s far more awkward to disentangle than usual. Each of them is nearly apologetic, offering the other small glances and sheepish grins as they ease apart and discreetly turn to clean themselves, climbing from opposite sides of the pools and keeping their backs to each other as they wrap up in gowns and cloaks that stick heavily to wet skin and sodden underthings.

“Well,” she says when they’ve turned back to face each other, some tentative new emotion burgeoning between them that Jon thinks he couldn’t acknowledge without killing it entirely.

“Well,” he echoes. She bites her lip, glancing up at him from beneath lowered lashes in that way Jon has come to recognize as a precursor to her bravery.

“Tomorrow?” she asks, a faint smile just barely curving her lips. “After lessons?”

It’s the first time they’ve made any sort of plans. Jon stares at her for a moment, his stomach making a sickly sweet flip.

“Tomorrow,” he agrees. Her smile widens, a dimple creasing her cheek, before she whirls and is gone, leaving Jon nearly as hard as if he’d never peaked at all.

__  
chapter title from Morning Poem by Robin Becker  



	4. create you in words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “And how does that feel?” He means it mostly as a tease, but Sansa surprises him.
> 
> “Shivery,” she breathes out immediately. “As if… As if everything’s tightening inside me. As if my heart is beating in my… Like it’s beating where you’re touching me.” Jon doesn’t know if it’s propriety that keeps her from naming the part of her that’s throbbing gloriously at his touch, or if she lacks knowledge of the word. He doesn’t entirely care. He only wants to make her feel like that forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show ages/aged up (I'm imagining them in the 14-18 range, so basically just think of them at whatever age you're comfortable with), set pre-series(ish)/Game of Thrones.

“Wait!”

He says it without meaning to. _Again_. As with so many things with Sansa lately, it’s becoming a pattern, letting his tongue slip when he knows full well it should be held, indulging in wants that he knows should be denied. A sick feeling invades his stomach and he wants to take the word back – such a simple little word, but there’s a mountain of yearning conflict behind it – but it hangs in the air between them like something tangible and he can’t.

Sansa freezes with one foot – one bare foot, elegant and delicate and pink – curling over the edge of the pool, ready to step down into the water to join him where he waits for her. For a moment, Jon can only appreciate her loveliness, the barely contained wildness of her poise; it’s not the wildness of a bear or a wolf, nothing so violent, but rather that of a doe, graceful and still. And beautiful. He remembers the day before, how he’d given her release once and then started again, only to be stunned when her small hand stole beneath the water to shyly stroke over his cock through his wet smallclothes. She’d only been brave enough for that, immediately withdrawing her hand after barely a touch. It had been enough. He’d come instantly – he could practically come now for how potent the memory is – and he thinks now that her boldness then is what’s making him feel equally reckless today. Equally ready to explore new territory.

It’s only when he sees the wariness in her face, the crease of worry that mars her brow as she looks at him in question, that he remembers himself with a guilty start. Everything is still so fragile between them, poised much the same as she is on the edge of the pool, hesitance balanced delicately against curiosity, shame warring constantly with need. 

“Why?” she asks quietly. He notices her twisting her shift compulsively between nervous fingers, a wounded look creeping over her face – “She thinks I mean to reject her,” Jon realizes – and his heart nearly breaks in half.

“I’m sorry, I only mean… That is, if you sat on the ledge, I could. Perhaps I could help you more. With. Um. If I could see. You. While. I…” It’s the most halting, abortive speech Jon’s ever heard himself utter, and he’s hardly good with words in the first place. He realizes he’s been focusing on her toes the whole time, those pale, thin toes. He imagines touching them, counting out each toe with a fingertip. He imagines them sliding and curling against his calves. He imagines them pressed to his back as he sits between her thighs…

She’s been staring at him as his thoughts unspool in his mind, for so long that his recklessness falters and an apology crowds from his throat to hang on the tip of his tongue like a raindrop. But then she shivers, her eyes slipping closed for a moment, just a brief moment, but it’s enough for Jon to see that she’s imagining too, and she’s intrigued. Wordlessly, she crouches and sits, dropping her feet into the water with calves and knees pressed primly together, her shift pulled up to mid-thigh. This one time, it won’t get wet.

Taking a long, deep breath for courage, Jon moves to stand in front of her. He drags one knuckle over her knee, marveling at the softness of her skin, the fine, pale down over her legs that’s invisible but for how it seems to make her glow golden in the sunlight. He looks up at her, that same sun shining behind her head in a bright corona, like she’s the Maiden in all her glory.

“Will you let me?” he asks quietly, touching her knee with only the back of one finger, waiting for her to acquiesce. Waiting for her to invite.

When she lets out a long, soft sigh and relaxes her legs, so that her knees shift and part a handswidth, Jon thinks he’s never felt so painfully hard in all his life.

The shift pulls into tautness over her thighs. Jon can just see the shadowy places beyond, the parts of her he’s learned so diligently by touch but never seen. Her eyes follow him, big and watchful, eyes that might seem frightened if Jon hadn’t learned her enough by now, if he didn’t see the wild tattoo of her pulse fluttering visibly at her throat, if the drift of her foot in the water didn’t bring her foot to bump and press against his waist. She wants his, he knows. She’s just as desperate and curious and want-filled as he. 

It’s heady knowledge. Jon moves closer, gently crowding her knees apart first with his hands and then with his shoulders. The hem of her shift pulls at her thighs, digging into her flesh. He thinks perhaps she’ll want to tug up the hem herself, but her hands stay planted on the ledge on either side of her hips, so Jon hooks his thumbs beneath the fabric and drags it up her thighs, the slow reveal of all that’s between them – all blush and cream and furling petals – striking him with near physical force. He glances up at her face; her eyes are closed, her chin dipped low to her chest. A long tendril of her hair has escaped the loose knot at her nape to lie over her cheek. The end curls towards him, crooked like a beckoning finger. It reminds him of that first day, the finger of her hair spreading on the water. Jon gives in to temptation and winds his finger in that curl, giving it a tug.

A sound of surprise vibrates in her throat and her eyes pop open and find his own. For a moment, she only looks at him, a flush staining her cheeks, and Jon wonders if he’s transgressed somehow. Then a smile as soft as the hair between his fingertips curls the edges of her lips. He’s spent what seems like forever wanting to see what he touches, but now he finds himself looking far more at her face, wanting to see her when he slides the back of his hand along the inside of her thigh and brushes gentle knuckles over the soft, swirling hair he finds. And it is soft, the hair he’d wondered about before. Not as soft as the tendril he still tests between his fingertips, but still pleasant to his touch.

“Sansa,” he murmurs. “May I?”

She shudders at his question. It could be a bad sort of shudder, but Jon doesn’t think so, a thought that’s confirmed when her eyes slip closed again and she nods.

Her face is the prettiest thing he’s ever seen, prettier than sunsets and first snowfall and stones worn perfectly round and polished by the river. It’s ever prettier when she inhales sharply at the stroke of his fingertip, her tongue showing pink between the white edges of her teeth. For as gently as he’s touched her before, it’s even gentler now, his fingers stroking over her with far more leisure than he feels. He drops his gaze to watch himself do what he’s only felt before. The furls and furrows he touches are as delicate as her face, as pretty and flushed and fascinating. Somehow the ways he’s touched her before make sense seeing it, deeper pink at all the smoothest places, the spot that has her whimpering and squirming alternately concealed and revealed with his touches. He looks back up at her face and is seized by an urge he’s never felt before to know what she feels.

“How does that feel?” he asks, using the different angle to rub the pad of his thumb over a smooth spot that makes her quiver.

“Good,” she says on an expelled breath. 

“Good how?” he asks, smiling. He has to fight not to laugh when her face knits into something like a scowl, one eye cracking open to give him a fulminating look.

“How many kinds of good are there?”

“Tens of thousands,” he tells her with a grin. “Does it feel good like a warm bed? Good like your name day?” He taps against her with his index finger, his grin growing wider when she gasps and her fingers grip the edge of the pool. “Good like lemon cakes?”

“Nothing’s good like lemon cakes,” she pants, closing her eyes once more.

“Is that a challenge?” he laughs. She doesn’t answer, but a faint smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. He dips his thumb inside, marveling at how hot and slick she feels. He’d not realized that wasn’t the water before, that it was _her_. Gods. Suddenly it’s Jon who’s quivering, and Sansa even more so when he drags his damp-coated thumb up to tease her, his touch slipping and skittering over her in a way he hadn’t known it could. He twists his hand so he can curl two fingers inside her while keeping his thumb where it is, circling the knot of skin and nerve that he can feel jumping under his touch.

“And how does that feel?” He means it mostly as a tease, but Sansa surprises him.

“Shivery,” she breathes out immediately. “As if… As if everything’s tightening inside me. As if my heart is beating in my… Like it’s beating where you’re touching me.” Jon doesn’t know if it’s propriety that keeps her from naming the part of her that’s throbbing gloriously at his touch, or if she lacks knowledge of the word. He doesn’t entirely care. He only wants to make her feel like that forever.

She doesn’t last forever, though. Soon she’s pulsing and fluttering around his fingers, everywhere he touches slick and hot and perfect. He’s torn between looking at her face and looking at his hand, wanting to see all of her at once when she finally peaks, at her face when it stretches into a soundless _oh_ , at her white knuckles that tighten surely to the point of pain on the pool’s edge, at the pulse that beats wildly at her throat, at the glistening flesh that beats near as wildly under his fingers. Then she reaches out and winds one hand in his hair, choking out his name before biting her lip, and he can only look at her face as pleasure washes over her like the leading edge of a storm.

Neither of them seems to know where to look or what to say after her shudders have subsided. Her cheeks are even redder now than they were before and she can’t seem to meet his eye. Jon turns to the side to allow her some distance, carefully rinsing his hands in the water until he hears her pulling her legs up and standing. When he turns back to look at her, his eyes snag somewhere near the hem of her shift. The cloth plasters itself to her shins, turning nearly translucent. As she finds her roughspun gown and pulls it over her head, he watches rivulets of water from the hem of her shift trace erratic paths down her ankles and over her feet. Suddenly he finds he wants to lick every bit of that moisture from her skin. He’s _dying_ to. And gods help him, but he doesn’t feel even a shred of guilt for it.

“Are you coming?” she asks quietly, and then she turns fiery red, her mouth drawing into an embarrassed pucker. “I didn’t mean… I meant back to the keep.” Jon can’t help but laugh. She must have learned that term from Theon.

“Not yet,” he answers. “And…not yet.” She presses her lips together at that, a dimple creasing her cheek as she tries not to smile outright.

“Alright. Will I see you at supper? What am I saying, of course I’ll see you at supper, we both live there and you have to eat, it’s not as if-” Taking a deep breath, she stops her nervous babble. Pity, Jon thinks. It was quite endearing. And quite nice to know that he’s not the only one sent all to pieces by this.

“I’ll see you at supper,” he answers. She smiles at him, the sort of smile that presses dimples into _both_ of her cheeks. It’s that smile he pictures in his mind after she’s gone and he sets himself to achieving his own peak.

Late that night, as he lies in bed awake, eyes fixed on the ceiling as if an image of her as she was this afternoon might appear there, a rustling at the door catches his attention. As he props himself up on his elbow to watch, a scrap of parchment slips beneath the door and slides across the floor. Curious, he climbs off his bed and snags the parchment with one hand, pulling the door open with the other to see if anyone is waiting outside. The hallway is empty, so he closes and latches the door before unfolding the parchment.

 _It was even better than lemoncakes_ , the note reads in Sansa’s elegant hand.

Heat blooming in his ribcage, Jon turns back to his bed and slips the note beneath his pillow, knowing that when he dreams tonight, it will be of her.

_ chapter title from VII by Adrienne Rich _


	5. you blew through me like bullet holes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re terrible,” she says. Jon is about to retort that she’s the one who started it when she briefly presses her lips to his bare shoulder. It’s the first time either of them has done anything near kissing the other, and Jon feels like he’s just stepped off a height, like he’s plummeting to the earth with his insides still far above him, unable to catch up.

There have been a few days that were the best day Jon could imagine at the time. The day Arya was born looking just like him, another Stark face among the Tullys. The day he first bested Robb in training. The first day Sansa allowed him to make her peak.

Today is certainly another on the list.

They’d both been in the water this time when he helped her find her release. Most days she’s not quite brave enough to sit on the pool’s edge so he can watch; that only makes the times she is all the more potent. Today she’d arrived and lowered herself immediately into the water, so Jon had thought it wasn’t one of her brave days.

Now he thinks she was perhaps saving up her courage for this.

Even before she touches him in any way, Jon’s cock feels hard enough to hammer nails. It’s only to be expected, though. A beautiful girly shyly asking if she can bring you off has that effect on a boy. Not that she’d used those words, of course; such base terms would seem as foreign on Sansa’s tongue as High Valyrian. Her fumbled words and hot blushes work on him more effectively than any vulgarity. For a moment he only marvels at her, at the shy peek she dares at him before looking intently down at the water. Then he imagines her hand on him and he groans.

“If you don’t want me to-” she starts, but Jon forestalls her with a nearly violent shake of his head.

“I want you to.”

So the request was stirring enough, but then… Oh, but then she blushes even deeper and says, “Turn around.” She twirls her finger in explanation when he only stares at her, uncomprehending. Her half-smile is sheepishly apologetic. “I can’t look at you. Not the first time.”

The first time. It implies a second. Possibly more. Jon groans again, feeling as if he’s been struck across the face with a broadsword. But in a good way. It takes a moment to make his knees work, but he turns in the water and allowing her tug him towards her where she sits on the ledge. Her knees bump against his hips. Her breath is warm between his shoulder blades. And her hands are slipping around his waist to find the drawstring of his smallclothes. He would be hard pressed to imagine any day that could be better.

“Are all boys’ underclothes this difficult?” she says in exasperation as she fumbles at the wet drawstring knot. Jon opens his mouth to answer, but his words snag in his throat when she hooks her heels around the front of his thighs and pulls him closer, so she can get a better angle on the knot.

“I wouldn’t know,” he manages. Truth be told, the fumbling is almost more than he can bear as it is.

“You’ve never experimented?” she asks, a smile audible in her voice. “With…oh, Theon, perhaps?”

“Bite your tongue,” he laughs. Then something occurs to him, something his mind can barely handle.

“Have you? Experimented like that? With…” Jon thinks of all the girls Sansa could have shared such fumblings with. She hums teasingly, and he can only groan again. He knows if she doesn’t get her hands on him soon, he’ll embarrass himself quite thoroughly, so he brushes her hands aside to tug at the knot himself. It’s been worked even tighter by her efforts, the wet linen resisting all his attempts. With a frustrated sound, he reaches for his belt at the edge of the pool, pulling his knife from its sheath.

“Jon, what are you-”

The knot gives satisfyingly with a single slice. Even more satisfying is Sansa’s gasp, the bite of her fingernails at his waist when she tightens her grip. That’s something to store away to examine another time. He waits for one deep breath, then two, jerking involuntarily when he feels her thumbs hook in the top of his smallclothes to ease them down enough to free his cock.

His heart seems to thunder like the hooves of a thousand horses as he waits for her touch. When long moments pass and still she doesn’t touch him, he begins to think perhaps she intends to tease him – a heady thing, thinking Sansa capable of such teases – or…or worse, to change her mind. But then she makes a small, embarrassed sound and touches her cheek briefly to his shoulder.

“I’m not sure what to do.” Her confession makes Jon’s heart lurch dangerously. He takes a steadying breath.

“Whatever you’d like,” he answers. Still she hesitates, and Jon can imagine her behind him, lower lip pulled between her teeth, brows knitted with anxiety.

“Will you show me?” she asks. “Just at first.”

Wordlessly, he takes her hand in his own and slowly – so slowly he thinks he might perish – wraps it around his cock. He holds her hand there for several more steadying breaths, fighting the urge to buck up into her hand like an animal.

“Is this all?” she asks when he still hasn’t made any movement after a bit, surprise evident in her voice. “I just hold it? Perhaps that’s why boys’ clothes are so difficult, because their… Because the rest of them is so easy.”

Jon’s laugh comes out sounding – and feeling – like a hiccup. He’s surprised he can breathe at all for how tight his chest and stomach feel. “We _are_ quite easy,” he concedes, silently adding that _he_ most definitely is. “But there’s more to it, I’m afraid.”

“Show me,” she urges, and it’s not the sort of request he could deny even if he wanted to. The first stroke of her hand beneath his may be the most keenly pleasurable thing Jon has ever felt in his life. 

“Gods,” he breathes.

“In a good way?” she asks.

“In a very good way.” Jon could almost laugh at the understatement, but she’s moved her hand again, not needing him to guide her this time, and laughter is a bit out of the question. Moaning would be more appropriate. He lets his hand drop to float alongside her calf, touching her no more than he could blame on the movement of the water.

“Is it different?”

“Yes,” he says. “Your hand is so much softer than mine. I usually…” He breaks off with a sharp inhalation at the curious exploration of her fingers at the tip of his cock, skimming close to sensitive places but not lingering as long as he’d like. “I usually use my sword hand to…er, handle my sword, so to speak. You don’t have all my calluses.”

“I do!” she says, indignant.

“I don’t feel any.”

“That’s because my calluses are from drawing and needlework and harp,” she says. “They’re in different places.” She shifts her hand, splitting her fingers around him so he can feel the tough pads on the sides of her knuckles, on the tips of her fingers near the nail. He shivers at the drag of her skin over him, at the fact that she’s doing such a thing so casually, so thoughtlessly.

“So I have my sword hand and you’ve the hand that plies your needle?” 

“Mine and…others,” she says, squeezing her hand around him to punctuate her sly words, shocking him with her boldness and giggling at her own still-innocent bawdiness. It’s such a pure, girlish sound, so entirely Sansa. Jon has never heard that sound here at the springs before. Every intimacy they’ve shared here has been leavened with caution before. He thinks perhaps it’s having his back to her that allows her such ease and playfulness. He resolves then to never face her again if it brings out this side of her.

“I think I’ve found a new appreciation for needlework,” he sighs in pleasure, only barely resisting the urge to arch back against her.

“You’re terrible,” she says. Jon is about to retort that she’s the one who started it when she briefly presses her lips to his bare shoulder. It’s the first time either of them has done anything near kissing the other, and Jon feels like he’s just stepped off a height, like he’s plummeting to the earth with his insides still far above him, unable to catch up.

They fall into laden silence then, Jon’s ears filled with the sound of the water, with his own labored breathing and her answering breaths whispering past his ear. Her free hand is splayed over his stomach now, her smallest finger dipping into his navel. Strange how something so small can feel so evocative; the slightest movement of that finger makes Jon feel as if he could jump out of his skin. Up and down her hand moves, sometimes twisting tentatively, sometimes speeding, other times slowing. He recognizes the pattern; he’d done the same with her when she’d first allowed him to touch her, trying anything and everything, wanting to see what she liked. He wonders what she’s thinking of his response. As far as he’s concerned, he likes all of it. Particularly the tiny noises she makes in his ear, and the way she wriggles against his back, getting close enough that he fancies he can feel the heat between her legs against his back, even in the warm water. He’s struck by an almost overpowering urge to reach behind him and find her with his fingers, to see if she’s as warm and wet as he imagines, but he stops himself. This is all quite enough for one afternoon, most likely. Perhaps next time. And gods be good, there will always be a next time.

He lasts as long as he can, which is not nearly long enough. “Sansa,” he warns her. “I’m going to…” He expects that she’ll pull away, but she continues the motion of her hand, stroking him until he stiffens and swallows a moan, his fingers gripping her knee as he spills long and hard, his body threatening to turn inside out. The water whisks his release away, so that it’s clean even as he begins to soften in her hand. Jon wants nothing more than to lean back, to feel her surely soft teats against his shoulder blades and tuck his forehead into the curve of her neck. But though she just stroked him to release, he cannot shake the feeling that seeking out more from her would be taking liberties he would rather be given.

“Oh,” she says, loosening her grip on him with a start. “It’s… Oh.”

“Sorry,” Jon says, torn between laughter and chagrin. Gods, he forgets how innocent she is. And how strange so much of this must seem to her. “I suppose it feels a bit weird. After.”

“Not weird,” she says, moving both hands to curve over his waist at each side, one fingertip of her right hand dipped just beneath the waist of the smallclothes still sitting below his hips. “Just…new.”

“New,” Jon echoes. “That’s a good word for it.” He falls silent, at a loss for words. He thinks to offer her another release, but he’s come to learn her unspoken signals and she doesn’t seem ready for the moment. There’s nothing to do but surrender to reality and head back to the keep.

He climbs from the pool without looking back at her, not wanting to break the spell until he absolutely must. Once he’s gotten his breeches pulled up and his tunic pulled hastily over his head, he turns, expecting to find her dressed and drying beside him, but she’s still in the pool, watching him with eyes so big and deep that he very nearly climbs right back in the pool to make her peak as many times as he can.

“Are you coming?” he asks, realizing at the same time she does that he’s echoing her words from that day over a week ago. She smirks at him.

“Not yet,” she says, repeating his answer from that day. “And not yet.” Despite the heat in his belly at the thought of her alone in the pool, touching herself the way he’d touched himself that time before and perhaps thinking of him, he laughs and returns her smirk with a grin, feeling practically giddy. This cannot possibly be real, but somehow it is.

“Well played. I’ll see you at supper.”

She wrinkles her nose at him and arches one haughty brow. “Not if I see you first.”

It takes him the whole way back to the keep to wipe the idiotic smile off his face.

_ chapter title from Werewolf by CocoRosie _


	6. hear my mad machinegun heartbeat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I can feel your heartbeat under my fingertips, Sansa,” he says. “I feel it here.” He delves his fingers inside her and rubs fast circles with his thumb, until she utters a harsh cry, her flesh throbbing. Seized by a sudden recklessness – possibly even madness – he leans forward and catches her mouth with his. He’s kissed girls before, but not like this. Never anything like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show ages/aged up (I'm imagining them in the 14-18 range, so basically just think of them at whatever age you're comfortable with), set pre-series(ish)/Game of Thrones.

He expects he’ll dream of her. All through supper, he goes over every bit of the afternoon in his mind, her every touch and sound, her soft palm wrapped around him and her breath gusting warm at his nape. Over and over his hand drifts to the top of his thigh, his fingers testing the slight soreness left from the press of her heel earlier. Every time her eyes meet his, he remembers how she squirmed against him, and gods, he nearly comes again right there at the table just thinking about it.

It’s Sansa he thinks of as he takes himself in hand once he’s lain in his bed, the fire banked for the night, the furs kicked down around his feet and his smallclothes tossed carelessly aside. Sansa’s touch, her smile, the shy dart of her eyes when she’d implied she’d be taking _herself_ in hand after he left the springs, which nearly had Jon climbing right back in. It feels good, but Jon knows now that it doesn’t and could never again feel as good as it had when she’d touched him like that.

There’s no rap at the door to warn him. If there had been, it might have saved Jon from such indignity. Instead he’s deaf to the click and swing as his door opens, Sansa’s bare feet padding inside. It’s only when the door shuts behind her that he registers her presence. He bolts upright, rolling instinctively to the side in one smooth motion that unfortunately results in him less smoothly falling off the bed and to the floor in a tangled heap.

“Sansa!” he yelps, sweeping one hand across the floor in search of his smallclothes and the other across the mattress to snag the sleeping fur and pull it down atop his head. He wouldn’t have imagined he could get any less dignified than having her walk in on him, er, polishing his sword, but it’s clear he was wrong.

“Shhh,” she whispers, the sound engulfed in giggles. “You’ll rouse the whole keep!”

Finally, he manages to stand, the fur wrapped about him completely, so only his face pokes out. “Me!” he hisses, cheeks burning. “You’re the one sneaking about in the dead of the night.” She gifts that with a roll of her eyes.

“The evening isn’t even half past,” she points out. “Old Nan only just put the boys to bed.”

“Still! And how did you get in?”

“I used that trick you and Robb showed me once.” She brandishes a thin metal rod, one Jon recognizes as one of the tools the maidservants use to stoke and turn the fires.

“I don’t think we showed _you_ ,” he says, his heart finally slowing from the shock, but quickening in a different way at her unexpected presence in his bedchamber. While he’s fucking _naked_ under a fucking _bear pelt_. Gods, he feels like a complete tit. “I think you spied on us showing Theon.”

Sansa merely shrugs, as if the distinction is beneath her. Then she gestures to his fur covering, stepping closer with an odd expression, one Jon can’t quite name. “Is there really such a need to cover yourself? This afternoon I had my hand on your…” She trails off. Of course she’d not say such a base word, Jon thinks with mingled disappointment and relief. He’d quite like to hear her say it but he’s not sure he’d survive. But then she squares her shoulders and fists her hands at her sides, a mutinous set to her chin. 

“On your cock.”

“Gods,” he breathes, grateful for the heavy, concealing weight of the furs wrapped around his body. Collecting himself, he moves around to the other side of his bed, intending to chivy her right out the door and back to her own chamber, but instead stopping short and just looking at her, at her pink cheeks and the loose braid of her hair trailing down her chest, at her shy smile and bare feet. 

“You shouldn’t be in here,” he manages. “It’s improper.”

“Since when do you care about improper?” she asks.

“Since you’re in my bedroom and anyone could find us here!” And since your mother and _our_ father are within shouting distance, he thinks, but he doesn’t speak the words. He’s loath to say anything that would remind either of them of the realities they always ignore.

“Anyone could have found us at the springs,” she points out reasonably.

“Yes,” he says. “But that’s…”

“Different,” she supplies.

“Yes. Different.” This is all so different, her presence here in his room, the tentative but direct appraisal in her gaze. Jon’s head feels like someone shook it up with both hands.

“May I sit?” She doesn’t wait for his answer, moving past him to the edge of his bed. somehow she’s graceful even when clambering atop it and sitting back against the wall, knees together and her feet tucked primly to one side. Always a lady, he thinks, but then remembers what they’d done together just that afternoon. Some would think her less a lady for such things – Septa Mordane, most likely, Jeyne Poole most definitely. Jon’s not sure he agrees.

“Well?” she says. She pats the mattress in front of her twice. Jon hesitates. There’s been a sort of pretense to their meetings at the springs; though each of them knew just what they went there for, there was still a polite fiction to it, their trips cloaked in something unremarkable. Here in Jon’s bedchamber – in his _bed_ – there’s no place to hide.

It’s awkward to keep the fur swaddled about him as he climbs up onto the bed. He fists one hand at his waist when it slips off his shoulders, managing to keep it about his hips as he settles cross-legged on the mattress facing her. It’s no different than the way she saw him at the springs, so he leaves it there, puddled around him.

“Hello.” Her smile is as soft as the fur between his fingers, her voice even softer. Jon exhales on a laugh.

“Hello.” For some time they only sit, close enough to touch, stealing glances at each other and hiding smiles, Sansa’s fingers plucking at her shift while Jon’s twist in the fur he holds at his waist. She keeps looking at his chest and then away, sucking in her breath on little gulps.

“Would you like me to put on a tunic?” he asks. She shakes her head, a blush pinking her cheeks. “I can, if you’re uncomfortable-”

“No!” She meets his eyes and he can see she speaks truly. “No, I’m not. It’s only that I don’t usually see you like this.”

“You’ve seen me like this in the springs,” he points out.

“Yes,” she says. “But it seems…”

“Different?” he says with a wry grin, echoing her earlier statement. She wrinkles her nose at him.

“Yes, different.”

“Why are you here, Sansa?” The words are gentle, encouraging. But still Sansa seems to lose her bravado, looking every bit the young girl she is as she shrugs and peeks up at him shyly, long strands of her hair falling forward over her cheeks.

“I felt all… I don’t know. I just wanted to come see you.”

“I see,” he says, though he doesn’t, not really. He doesn’t understand why this night should be different than any other. Or perhaps this is only a dream, so intense as to seem real. Then she shifts up on to her knees and pulls the hem of her nightrail to the top of her thighs, and Jon looks at her, all pink and amber and glowing in the firelight, and thinks it _has_ to be a dream.

“Will you touch me, Jon?”

He wishes he could say he hesitates, that he considers the precariousness of doing such a thing here in the keep, surrounded by their family. It would be untrue. Instantly he is on his knees, one hand on the mattress next to her hip, holding him up, while the other slides up the inside of her thigh to where she’s already wet and ready for him. For _him_. The thought is dizzying.

“Oh,” she gasps, shifting her knees wider on the mattress. 

“Good?” He barely recognizes his own voice, it sounds so rough.

“Yes, good. So good. Don’t stop, Jon.”

Jon laughs. He wants to tell her he wouldn’t dream of it, but it’s all he can do to keep breathing. He thinks he could do this a thousand times and never grow accustomed to the feel of her, soft and slick under his fingers, warm and wet around them. She mewls and hitches into his touch, falling back against the wall with her knees cocked, pointed toes skimming the mattress. He goes with her, moving forward until her shin is pressed against his arm. The fur has fallen away entirely, leaving him entirely bare. It feels right that he should be unclothed while she still wears her shift, tucked though it is about her waist with sweat wicking through at her chest, showing the curves of her breasts and the rosy shadows of each peak. Jon may have more power out in the world, even as a bastard, but here the power is all Sansa’s. 

He moves his fingers faster, all thought of teasing gone. He’s never seen her peak like this, her face so close that he can feel her breath on his lips. Always she’s been above him, or at his side. The intimacy of seeing her like this as he touches her is so potent that he feels dizzy. Sansa seems to feel the same; she’s never talked like this before, words bubbling from her lips like water in a stream.

“Please,” she begs. “Oh please. I’m close, Jon, I’m so… Oh, _please_.”

“I can feel your heartbeat under my fingertips, Sansa,” he says. “I feel it here.” He delves his fingers inside her and rubs fast circles with his thumb, until she utters a harsh cry, her flesh throbbing. Seized by a sudden recklessness – possibly even madness – he leans forward and catches her mouth with his. He’s kissed girls before, but not like this. Never anything like this.

She comes crying out into his mouth. He swallows every sound she makes, stroking her through her crisis and bringing her swiftly to a second. He wants nothing more than to bear her down to the bed, to lie atop her and feel her body under his, to taste every bit of her and find his own crisis inside her. He keeps himself to this, though, drawing every sound and shiver out of her and hoarding them like a miser with a treasure. Sitting back on his heels as her tremors abate may be the most difficult thing he’s ever done.

After she’s caught her breath – too soon, as Jon could watch her slumped against the wall, panting and quivering, for possibly the rest of his life – she sits forward and tucks her feet to one side again, almost becoming prim, ladylike Sansa again but for the flush at her cheeks and chest and knees, the ruck of her nightrail around her hips that shows glimpses of her each time she shifts. If Jon weren’t already painfully hard, he would be at that. Belatedly, realizing that said painful hardness is also quite visible, he pulls the furs back around him. To his surprise, she frowns a bit once he’s covered himself.

“I just thought…” he says lamely, in response to her seeming disappointment.

“You’ve seen me,” she points out.

“Yes, but that was…”

He wants to repeat the evening’s refrain, that it's different, but he knows it's not. Not truly. It's only different for him, because he can't imagine her wanting to see him how much he'd wanted to see her. He can't imagine being as intoxicatingly beautiful to her eyes as she was to his. He can't imagine her looking at him and wanting more than anything to touch and taste and feel him inside her the way he can't stop imagining with a longing very near to pain. But he could hardly refuse her anything now. Perhaps he never could.

He feels more than a little absurd once he’s pushed aside the furs, cross-legged and bare as a bag frog with his stiff cock quivering against his belly, desperate for attention. Awkwardly, he crosses his arms over his chest. Judging from the purse and quirk of Sansa’s lips, as if she’s trying not to smile, he looks as absurd as he feels. She makes a funny little noise in her throat that he thinks must be a giggle. Ages ago, Sansa laughing at him like that would have made his stomach sink and his temper flare. Now it makes his chest feel tight and buoyant in a way he never expected. Impulsively, he sticks his tongue out at her. It’s undignified and more than a little childish, but it seems called for and Jon’s glad he did when she breaks into a pealing laugh.

“Oh Jon, if you could see yourself,” she says

“I hope you appreciate what I do for you,” he says, putting on a mock scowl. It takes effort to maintain it. All he wants to do is grin at her like a buffoon. Her smile softens and she looks at him with such warmth that he forgets the awkwardness of the moment before.

“I do,” she says seriously. “Very much. Jon, I wish I had the words, you’ve been so…” She makes a frustrated noise. These aren’t words they say, the two of them, this isn’t something they address. The more they speak of it, the closer they tread to the uncomfortable truths that would keep them apart. Perhaps that’s what makes her shake her head, as if to dispel the air of reality that’s settled over them.

“Will you touch yourself now?” she asks. “For me?”

“I couldn’t.” The words are out of Jon’s mouth before he’s even considered them. They’re somewhat absurd; he very much could, given the state of his cock. But it seems so… There’s that word again, different. “I mean, I could,” he laughs, wrapping his hand lightly about himself as if to prove it, and Gods, even that touch has him feeling unraveled. “I could, but-”

“I could help,” she suggests, scooting forward on her knees. “If you're having trouble.” He opens his mouth to tell her that’s not why he couldn’t – that his barriers are anything but physical – but she bites her lip, her eyes flicking downward, and his breath snags in his throat. Why this should feel worlds away from what she’d done just that afternoon, Jon doesn’t know. It does, though. He’d never imagined being able to see her as she touched him, the two of them face to face like this. Truth be told, he scarcely dared believe she’d touch him like that again; those were hopes he couldn’t have born to be dashed once he’d raised them. But the feel of her hand on top of his wipes his mind clean of all doubt or reservation.

“Good?” she asks, looking up at him from beneath her eyelashes as she guides his hand. His only answer is a shudder. He’s in such a heightened state that it takes almost no time at all. Desperate to spill away from her, he shakes off her hand and yanks the fur across his lap, pulling it into place just as he begins to spend in hot, wet spurts that feel like they’re coming from his toes. She watches his face the whole time. That only makes him spend harder.

“Sansa,” he says on a groan. Suddenly, she leans forward and presses her lips to his, her kiss startlingly sweet compared to the carnality of their situation, his cock still twitching beneath the fur. When she sits back, Jon unthinkingly follows her, unwilling to let the kiss end. Neither of them was expecting it, though, and his weight bears her backwards until they crash together onto the mattress in a heap, Sansa’s surprised laughter filling Jon’s mouth as her arms wind reflexively around his shoulders.

He should get up immediately, or at the very least roll to the side. Instead he stays where he is, lying half atop Sansa with the fur between them, his cheek pressed to the delicate curve of her collarbone and her hands fanned over his bare shoulder blades. Of all they’ve done tonight – all they’ve done over the past weeks, really – this feels most dangerous. It seems each of his transgressions is followed by a greater one, and yet he can’t stop. But then she can’t seem to stop either. It should be terrifying, but it’s only thrilling.

“Jon?” she says after they’ve laid together that way long enough for his blood to cool and the sweat on his spine to dry. One of her hands idly cards through his hair in slow, soothing motions.

“Mm?”

“Thank you.”

He smiles against her throat. “You’re not allowed to thank me for something I wanted to do anyway.” A soft sound vibrates in her chest, sounding loud in his ear. He can’t see her face, but he thinks perhaps she’s smiling.

“Perhaps next time you won’t try to weasel out of it,” she says, a sly edge to her voice.

Jon’s smile widens, until he thinks his cheeks might split. _Next time_. He should get up, help her off the bed and see her to her chamber. He should do anything but lie here, lulled by her touch and her heartbeat, the sweet smell of her curling in his nose the way her hand had curled around him and shown him a new world.

There are so many things he should do. But for now, he only rubs his nose against her skin and says, “Perhaps.”

 

_title from Giving Me Away by Betty Who_


End file.
